Cold Tile Floors
by The Typewriter Girl
Summary: Stiles falls ill with a nasty bug; will Scott and Derek be able to come to his rescue in time? As always, whump, bromance, and Sterek if you squint! ;)
1. Chapter 1

Stiles woke up with one hell of a headache.

He clumsily flung his arm out from under the covers and fumbled to turn off the blaring, obnoxious "Marimba" iPhone alarm currently assaulting his ears. _If Satan had a ringtone, that would be it_, he thought begrudgingly.

Stiles rolled over and buried his face into the pillow, heaving an exasperated sigh into the squishy cotton. He lay there a moment, savoring the warmth of his blankets for a few more moments as he tuned into the pounding sensation in his temples. _As if Mondays weren't crappy enough_. Now he could go to school with a headache, too.

Getting dressed proved to be just as difficult as dragging himself out of bed. Each moment was clumsy and slow; his limbs felt heavy, as if lead weights were dragging them to the ground. _Come on, wake up, Stiles,_ he mentally scolded himself. His phone buzzed from the nightstand, prompting him to lean over and glance at the screen.

_Scott:_  
_Where r u? You're almost late for chem_

Stiles glanced at the time on his phone and gasped, nearly falling over in his haste to hop into his jeans and pull them on. He cursed and shoved a toothbrush in his mouth, flying around his room frantically grabbing keys, backpack, shoes... What was he missing? Breakfast?_ Fuck that._ The only thing more uncomfortable than an empty stomach was Ms. Swartz handing him a detention slip, which was gonna happen if he didn't start the jeep _now_.

Stiles impatiently shook his head in an effort to clear the sleepiness fogging his brain, nearly falling over in the process. He grumbled under his breath as he tore out into the hallway and out the front door.

He couldn't shake the feeling that it was going to be a crappy day.

* * *

Scott glanced down at his phone nervously as the bell rang. He was standing awkwardly outside the chemistry room, waiting for some sort of reply from his friend that proved he was alive and indeed coming to class. They had a test today on unit 5, and Scott knew that Stiles already had enough difficulty keeping his grades up when he _wasn't_ missing exams. On top of that, Ms. Swartz wasn't too fond of him and his constant ADHD-fueled chattering, and she would hand Stiles a detention slip in an instant... And Scott knew how much his friend hated missing lacrosse practice after school.

The werewolf made his way over to his seat in the back as the students began filing into the classroom. He sat down and began bouncing his knee up and down, the tremors becoming more exaggerated with every passing minute. _Come on, Stiles._

The teacher moved to the front of the room with her clipboard, pen poised above the attendance sheet ready to condemn any poor soul to wander though the door after the shrill cry of the bell. _Three,_ tick. _Two,_ tick...

Suddenly Stiles stumbled into the classroom, breathing hard and nearly tripping over his feet just as the bell sounded. Ms. Swartz looked dissapointed.

"Stilinksi... I see you decided to show up for the test after all," she said, clicking her tongue. She stared him down with her signature dagger-eyes as he clumsily made his way to his seat in front of Scott.

"Yes ma'am," he breathed. "Wouldn't miss it..."

Scott frowned. Stiles seemed... _Off._

"Hey," he whispered, leaning in close to Stiles's ear. "Why were you late?"

"Just tired," he muttered, turning his head slightly to look at the werewolf out of the corner of his eye. Scott frowned. Stiles was seldom "tired." The teenager's reputation was the ADHD version of the energizer bunny. Just as he was about to interrogate him further, the teacher silenced him with a warning look of steel as she began handing out the exam sheets. Scott sighed.

_I'll get him after class._

* * *

Unfortunately, Stiles was still working when the bell rang. The students got up and filed out the door, but the teen stayed behind to finish since he qualified for extended time. Scott eyed him worriedly as he stood up and zipped up his backpack. He smelled funny; not in the kind of way when one doesn't shower, but there was an unidentified odor masking Stiles's usual scent of soapstone and cinnamon. His friend's hand was pressed up against his forehead, which was a sea of stressed-out crevices. His leg was bouncing up and down, much in the same way that Scott's was at the beginning of class.

The werewolf reached out a hand as he walked by and gently squeezed his friend's shoulder. Stiles glanced up momentarily, the edge of his lip tugging up a bit when he saw Scott's reassuring smile.

But the alpha's expression faded into a more concerned facade once he turned away and walked out the classroom door. _Was Stiles always that pale?_

* * *

Stiles felt awful, to say the least.

This morning his headache decided to amplify ten points during his chem test, and he was pretty sure he botched the exam completely. Even with the time extension, he simply couldn't focus with the dull throbbing in his temples.

Now it was lunch time, and Stiles felt like crap. Throughout the day the mild fatigue had escalated into bone-dead exhaustion, topped with scatters of intermittent dizzy spells. He forced his heavy limbs to take him to the cafeteria, feeling like a rusty machine that needed an oil treatment. He let out a sigh, silently hoping that it was just a migraine. His dad had been working extra long hours recently to pay the bills, and Stiles needed to be able to take care of himself. That meant keeping up with homework, housework, and not getting sick; otherwise the sheriff would cut back his hours, and Stiles couldn't jeopardize his father's wellbeing.

Scott bit into his sandwich as he spotted Stiles across the cafeteria, watching him slowly trudge towards the table. Stiles looked ill; his eyelids drooped and his mouth was parted slightly on a pale, tensed face, as if he had a headache. The teen looked up, meeting his eyes with a miserable expression for a split second before he quickly pulled it into a grin. _A _fake_ grin_, thought Scott.

"Hey," said Stiles. He plopped down in the seat across from the werewolf.

"Hey," replied Scott suspiciously. Stiles reached into his backpack and pulled out his English binder, setting it on the table a little too casually.

"Interesting lunch..." Scott commented, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes, I find Faulkner notes quite refreshing on a crisp October day like this one," replied Stiles, flipping past pages of doodles to a page littered with a surprising amount of messy, scribbled notes. Scott smirked.

"Funny," he said dryly. "But seriously, where's your food?"

Stiles glanced at his friend's BLT before looking back down at his notes.

"Had a big breakfast."

Scott stopped chewing and cocked his eyebrow again. _What?_

"Mm... What did you have?"

The teen's nose twitched; a habit Scott had come to recognize as something Stiles did whenever he was nervous or uncomfortable.

"...Waffles."

"So... You had time to make _waffles_ this morning, despite being _so_ tired and slow that you almost missed the test?"

Stiles bit his lip and glanced up again, a flicker of annoyance in his gaze.

"Hey, can we stop with the interrogation?" He quipped.

"Not until you admit you're not feeling well."

Stiles stiffened slightly. He didn't look up.

"I feel fine, Scott."

"No, you _don't_," countered Scott, staring down his friend. "I can smell it on you; you're getting sick."

Stiles stared stonily back at his friend, eyes flickering back and forth over a decision until he gave in and huffed a sigh, shoulders deflating.

"Fine... I may be feeling a little under the weather," he muttered, running his tongue over his lips in a little swipe. "But it's just a little bug, really."

Scott pursed his lips and sized him up, eyes sweeping over his friend in an intense optical analysis. Stiles cracked a lopsided grin at his friend's suspicious scowl. _He looked like Derek._

"I'm fine. _Really_, Scott." Stiles reached over and took the werewolf's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Scott looked at his friend's puppy-dog eyes and sighed, pulling his hand away stubbornly.

"Okay," he said slowly, drawing out the syllables. An edge of suspicion still lingered in his voice. "Just don't push yourself too hard, Stiles."

Stiles pulled a smirk, the teensiest bit of exhaustion creeping back into his eyes.

"Thanks, buddy. I'll be fine."

* * *

"This better be good, Scott."

Scott bit his lip as the alpha's gruff voice hit his ears over the phone. He could practically see his signature scowl.

"Derek, I need a favor," he said. "Practice is about to start and Stiles hasn't shown up... He, he seemed sick earlier... And..."

"And?"

Scott pursed his lips.

"I... I just can't shake the feeling that something's not right," he said quietly. "Could you... Could you go check on him?"

Silence. Derek Hale Silence.

_"Seriously?"_

"Yes," he said, desperation wrinkling his features. "Look, I'd do it myself but I need to-"

_"Out to the field, boys!"_ The coach's shout echoed down the locker room and rattled Scott's eardrum.

"Derek, please," he begged.

_"Put the phone away, McCall!"_

"For me," he breathed before snapping the phone shut and shoving it into the netting of his lacrosse stick. _Please, for once in your life put aside your pride and do this for me. For Stiles_, he thought.

"Coming, coach!"

* * *

Stiles stumbled through the front door of house, positive he was going to keel over any second. Scott had caught on to him during lunch, (_him and his damn werewolf nose_), but Stiles had assured him he was fine. Really, he just didn't want to worry him. Scott had enough on his plate with Allison and his dad and, _you know_, being a werewolf and all. It wasn't fair to take his attention away from all that so he could worry over him; lame, annoying _Stiles_, who was probably fine.

But now Stiles wasn't so sure if he _was_ really fine. He had barely managed to make it through econ and calculus after lunch; by the time the bell rang, Stiles felt like he was going to pass out. Everything was spinning and warm and he felt a little like he was having a panic attack, minus the panic part. It took everything he had to make it down the stairs and out to his jeep. He knew he wouldn't make it to practice, so he skipped and drove home. Scott would notice for sure, but he would deal with that later, when he wasn't feeling like death.

A fresh wave of dizziness crashed over him as he crossed the living room, coupled with an unpleasant tug in his stomach. The world spun, making him stumble in his moment of disorientation as little black dots pricked his vision. He tried desperately to grab something for support, but it was hot and he couldn't really breathe and everything was spinning and suddenly he crashed to his hands and knees on the hardwood floor, the sharp pain shooting through his bones and into his stomach, making the nausea rise up full-force. Stiles barely managed to push himself up and stumble through the tilting room to the bathroom in time.

Stiles quickly pushed up the lid of the toilet and gripped the edges of the bowl just as his stomach retaliated. He grimaced as his threw up the contents of yesterday's dinner, seeing as he hadn't eaten today. His palms slipped on the porcelain rim as a cold sweat washed over him. He was burning and freezing as he violently heaved into the bowl, head throbbing painfully with every contraction. Stiles distantly wondered if this is what it felt like to die as his body trembled with the effort, tears springing to his eyes as pain wracked through his body. _God, he was exhausted_. It took everything he had to stay upright as his stomach lurched, desperately gasping for air in between every forced choke.

After a few minutes, he was finally finished. Stiles coughed weakly as he swayed slightly on trembling legs, head still down, facing the sick in the bowl before him. Panting and hands trembling, Stiles blinked the tears out of his eyes and forced his shaking frame to straighten up. Immediately the world spun and black dots bloomed in his vision as he felt the blood drain from his head. Thoughts of warning were drowned out by the ringing in his ears as he struggled to stay upright, but he felt tingly and light and then suddenly his legs gave out and he swooned forward, cracking his head on the side of the sink on his way down. A sickening thunk echoed against the walls of the bathroom as Stiles crashed to ground in a tangle of limbs. He never felt himself make contact with the cold tile floor.

* * *

Derek grumbled inwardly as he shut the car door and trudged up the walkway to Stiles's house. Scott _had_ to call him on his day off, to go check on _Stiles_ of all people, who was probably fine. _Why_ he was doing this? Well... As much as he didn't want to admit it, he actually liked Scott... And as much as he _really_ didn't want to admit it, he actually liked Stiles. As paranoid as Scott sounded, a small part of Derek wanted to make sure Stiles was okay, just in case the alpha was right. And once he confirmed that the kid was indeed fine and dandy, he could rub it in Scott's face and continue pretending that he hated them both.

But upon approaching the house, Derek paused as his instincts kicked up. Something was..._ Off._ He grasped the doorknob and twisted it gingerly; the front door opened with a small click, unlocked.

"Stiles?" He called out, cautiously stepping into the house. A faint scent of illness lingered in the air, intertwining with the icy pang he felt in his gut. Scott was right; _something was wrong._

"Stiles?" He called again, this time louder. A small twinge of worry crept into his voice. The stench of illness grew stronger as he advanced across the living room, looking down the hallway to his right and saw the bathroom door wide open. He smelled blood.

Instinct driving him forward, Derek quickly strode over and whipped around the doorframe, eyes widening with shock at what he saw.

Stiles was sprawled on the floor, limbs twisted in such a way that it looked like he had fallen from a three-story building. In the toilet bowl sat the contents of his emptied stomach, and there was a smear of blood on the corner of the sink. His eyes were closed and his face was sweaty and pale, aside from his cheeks, which were flushed with a feverish pink hue. His lips were slightly parted, drawing in small, strained breaths, and there was a nasty gash on his temple, from which small trickles of blood dripped down across his cheek.

_"Stiles!"_

Derek immediately jumped forward and knelt by the the unconscious figure, his usually-stony face plastered over with concern. He pressed a hand against the teen's forehead, shocked at the heat it radiated. He patted Stiles's cheek in an attempt to rouse him.

"Stiles? Stiles, wake up," he commanded. Stiles didn't even twitch. Derek slipped a hand under the boy's cheek and rotated his head so that it faced the alpha. He cradled the face in his hands.

"Stiles!" he tried again, louder this time. Stiles stubbornly remained unconscious, head lolling limply in Derek's hands as the werewolf called his name.

"Shit," muttered Derek. He ripped out his cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans and dialed Scott, who picked up on the third ring.

"Derek," he panted, sounding slightly annoyed. "This better be important, I'm in the middle of practice, you're lucky I kept my phone on me but coach-"

_"Scott!"_ He interrupted, a growl cutting into his voice.

Scott immediately stopped, sensing the urgency in the alpha's voice.

"Derek, what's-"

"Scott. Get over here, _now_. It's Stiles."

Derek could feel Scott's rapidly-rising panic from the other side of the line.

"W-what? What happened, is he okay?" Scott's distressed cry rang against Derek's eardrum as the alpha pressed two fingers against Stiles's wrist.

"I found him collapsed in the bathroom," said Derek. Stiles's pulse was thready and racing, as if he had just sprinted a mile. The knot of fear in Derek's stomach doubled.

"He has a fever and a head injury. He's unconscious. Hurry, Scott."

* * *

Hello readers :) thanks so much for checking out my third story! New chapters are on the way soon. Love, The Typewriter Girl.


	2. Chapter 2

For once, Scott wasn't enjoying practice. He was distracted, tossing sloppy throws and running at half-speed, trying to drown out the twinge of dread eating away at his stomach. He rolled his eyes at himself as he jogged across the field._ When did he become such a girl?_ Stiles was _fine_. He was an alpha; he needed to stop being such a worry-wart and be strong for the pack. More like Derek.

"Alright, boys! Take five!"

The team instantly deflated, shoulders falling and dogged jogs slowing to heavy, uncoordinated steps as they congregated by the bleachers. Scott wiped the sweat from his brow and went to join the other players at the sidelines of the field, breathing heavily.

But before he got there, his attention was captured by the buzzing of his cellphone, which was vibrating on the bleachers next to his water bottle. He quickened his pace and glanced down at it.

_Derek Hale calling_

Scott threw a quick glance over his shoulder. Technically, they weren't allowed to have phones at practice, but the coach was occupied with giving some pep-talk to another player. He quickly picked up the phone and answered it.

"Derek," he panted. "This better be important, I'm in the middle of practice! You're lucky I kept my phone on me but coach-"

_"Scott!"_

Scott froze as the alpha interrupted, a tense growl cutting into his voice. His eyebrows knitted together. Derek sounded... _Scared?_

_Stiles._

The thought popped into his head unintentionally, coupled with an icy squeeze in his stomach. He cut in immediately, fear wielding his pitch.

"Derek, what's-"

"Scott. Get over here, now. It's Stiles."

The knot of cold dread in Scott's gut ballooned, shooting through his chest and limbs and into his head, making everything slowly swirl around him.

"W-what? What happened, is he okay?!" Scott barked urgently into the phone, his distressed cry making a few of the other boys turn their heads in his direction.

"I found him collapsed in the bathroom," said Derek.

"McCall, get rid of the phone!"

Scott whirled around, spotting a pissed-off coach marching towards him, face red and gut jiggling with every heavy step.

"He has a fever and a head injury. He's unconscious. Hurry, Scott."

Scott opened his mouth to say something, but the adrenaline from Derek's terrifying words made his breath hitch in his throat.

"I _said_, drop_ the phone_, McCall!"

The coach was upon him now. Scott quickly snapped his phone shut, heart racing and eyes pleading with the bug-eyed man staring him down. He had the attention of the entire team now. The coach stuck his neck out so his face was uncomfortably close to Scott's nose, jowls trembling in sync with the vein on his cherry-hued forehead.

"_How_ many times do I have to tell you _not_ to bring your phone to practice!" He spat, tiny flecks of spit landing on Scott's cheeks. He thrust out his hand, palm-up. "Hand it over."

Scott's eyes darted between the sweaty palm in front of him and the steely eyes of his coach. He clutched his phone, fingers tightly wrapped around it, unwilling to let go.

_He has a fever and a head injury. He's unconscious._

Scott took a step back.

"No."

The word slipped out before Scott could even process the thought. He stepped backwards, eyes widening at the daring of his own words. He felt the team tense behind him. A few faint gasps and snickers reached his ears as the coach turned a new shade of crimson, eyes twitching in disbelief before hardening.

"_Give me_ the phone, _McCall_," he said in a dangerously low tone, teeth gritting.

_Hurry, Scott._

Scott took another step back.

"Coach, I-I need to go, I-"

"You WHAT?" He roared, eyes darting up and down Scott's frame incredulously. But the werewolf was already turning around to grab his belongings off the bleachers behind him.

"I-I'm sorry, I need to leave," he said, a bit more strength coming into his voice. He shot one more glance at the dumbfounded faces around him before spinning on his heels and quickly pacing towards the parking lot.

"You walk off that grass and you're not coming back on!"

Scott froze in his tracks as the coach's shout echoed across the field, followed by a deathly silence. Lacrosse, the game he loved. His sport. The sport he had been playing for three years, with his best friend...

_Stiles._

Scott swallowed and pressed his lips together as he prepared himself for what he was about to do. For everything he was about to give up, and for his best friend.

He kept walking.

* * *

"Scott?"

The alpha shoved his phone back in his pocket as he heard a soft click on the other end of the line. Derek gazed at the broken teen on the floor before him, hands hovering above the prone figure as he forced his mind to stop racing and rationalize. _Head injury._ Stiles was bleeding freely from his temple; he needed pressure on it.

Derek hooked his arms underneath the boy's armpits and hoisted him up into a sitting position. Stiles's head lolled forward against Derek's chest, smearing blood on the alpha's shirt. Derek grunted a bit as he awkwardly shuffled the limp teen over against the sink, gently withdrawing his arms before whipping his head around for a towel. He spotted a stack of washcloths on a wicker shelf, quickly grabbing one as he turned on the sink faucet. As he wet the cloth and wrung it out, he glanced down worriedly at Stiles, who remained motionless, slumped against the sink with his chin against his chest. The blood from his forehead had streamed down and stained the fabric over his shoulder a dark red.

Derek bent down and cupped the teen's cheek in one hand, supporting his head as he used the other to gently press the damp cloth against his cut. Stiles inhaled sharply as the werewolf gently applied pressure to the wound. A soft moan escaped the teen's lips.

"Stiles. Stiles, I need you to wake up."

The teen's eyelids fluttered, but remained closed. He swallowed dryly, the muscles in his jaw flexing against Derek's palm.

"Wha'mn..."

"That's it," encouraged the werewolf. He gently wiped the blood off of Stiles's forehead, which radiated an alarming amount of heat. "...Stiles?"

But the teen's head rolled heavily in Derek's hand as his short date with semi-consciousness ended abruptly. The alpha stopped dabbing at the wound to grab Stiles's ruddy cheeks in both hands, which blazed in temperature.

"Dammit," breathed Derek.

He knew it was dangerous for humans if their body temperature got too high, and judging by Stiles's current state, he had a threateningly-high fever. He needed to cool him down,_ fast._

Derek gently set the teen's head down so it dropped against his shoulder. Then he quickly slipped his arms behind his back and knees and hoisted him up, bridal style. Stiles's head lolled back limply, arms dangling as the alpha carried him over to the shower. Derek glanced down worriedly for a fraction of a second as he felt the teen's erratic pulse hammering rapidly against his skin. Stiles was shockingly pale, his cheeks enflamed and the color of ruby watermelon. He was drenched in sweat, lips parted and begging for air. _How did he manage to get so sick?_

Careful to avoid knocking his head, Derek gently set Stiles down inside the porcelain tub and fumbled to turn on the tap. With a twist, the shower head sputtered to life, sending a frigid jetstream cascading down onto the unconscious teen. The water stained his blue shirt navy as it splashed onto the fabric, sending little flecks of moisture jumping up onto his face to mix with beads of sweat. Derek fiddled with the faucets until the temperature was cool, watching as the water rained down upon the kid he secretly had a soft spot for. He moved over and gently tilted the teen's chin up so he could breathe easier, and so that he would avoid getting water in his mouth. Derek felt funny, holding Stiles like this. Slightly uncomfortable, like he was crossing some boundary he didn't really like to acknowledge. It made him kind of squirmy inside, like a little kid about to ride on an airplane for the fist time. Derek sighed softly. God knows Stiles would never be able to look at him again if he was awake to witness this. The kid made a hobby out of making things awkward.

Suddenly he heard the front door bang open, followed by Scott's distant thundering footsteps.

_"Derek?"_

Scott's call echoed down the hallway, voice drenched in apprehension and concern. There was a slight pause, and then the sound of his heavy boots getting louder as the werewolf picked up the sound of the shower running.

"In here!"

Scott flew around the corner of the doorframe, eyes widening with shock as they spotted the unconscious, bleeding form of his friend in the tub, whose face was gently being held up by... _Derek?_

"Stiles!"

Scott let out his best friend's name in a breath, racing to the side of the tub. Derek stepped back, letting Scott come forward to replace his hold on the limp teen.

"Derek, what the_ hell_ happened?" He demanded, smoothing the hair back from Stiles's forehead. His hand came back slick with sweat and blood from the gash on his temple, which hadn't stopped bleeding. Derek stood up to get more towels from the wicker rack.

"My guess is that he got sick and passed out," he said. He threw Scott a clean towel, which was immediately pressed to Stiles's head wound. "He probably cracked his head on the way down," he continued, flushing the leftover sick down the toilet. "There's blood on the corner of the sink."

Scott's worried gaze turned to Derek for a moment, flickering to the toilet, the sink, and then back to the pale face of his passed-out friend. In his eyes, Derek saw fear, sadness, and... _Guilt?_

"This is my fault."

Derek squinted a bit at the alpha. _He was right then._

"I knew he was lying," Scott continued, eyebrows squishing his forehead into a sea of distressed wrinkles. "I could see right though him, I should've stayed with him until he got home..."

Suddenly there was a shift in Stiles's breathing. His eyebrows twitched slightly in a register of pain.

"Stiles?" Scott immediately turned his friend's head so that it faced him. "Stiles, are you with me?"

The teen let out a groan in response. Derek quickly came over and squeaked off the shower nozzle before going to Scott's side.

"Stiles, come on buddy, open your eyes," Scott pressed.

Breathing shallow and slight tremors rippling through his body, Stiles weakly pushed open his eyelids, revealing slivers of disoriented, unfocused cinnamon irises.

"Sc'tt..." He slurred. His head rolled in the werewolf's hands.

"Yeah buddy, it's me," breathed the werewolf, eyes dancing with the tiniest spark of relief. "You've gotta wake up, okay? Wake up for me."

"...Why'mi' wet?"

Stiles stared blankly ahead under droopy eyelids. Derek hooked his arms around his soaked waist.

"Come on," he said, motioning to Scott. "Let's get him out of the tub."

Scott immediately laced his arm behind Stiles's shoulders and lifted with Derek. Stiles didn't seem to notice.

"Just stay awake, okay Stiles? Hang on, you're gonna be okay," said Scott. He and Derek managed to maneuver the almost dead-weight body into a sitting position, skinny legs dangling over the side of the tub. His head hung low, arms numb and being held in place around the alphas' shoulders. He turned a sickly new shade of white with the change in position as his pulse spiked.

"Sc'tt..." He choked breathlessly, doubling over. "M'gnn be..."

The werewolves barely had enough time to move their feet out of the way before Stiles retched violently onto the floor, stomach acid splattering on the cold tiles as the teen weakly grasped his friends. Stiles would have fallen to the ground with his own sick if Derek and Scott hadn't held him up. Scott looked desperately at Derek, whose horrified eyes were glued on the choking teen below him. Stiles took a shuddering breath and unsteadily raised his head before falling completely limp, slack hands grazing the floor as the startled werewolves gripped him tightly under the arms.

"_Stiles!_ No, nonono…"

Scott's crestfallen exclamation echoed off bathroom walls as he and Derek fumbled to set Stiles against the wall. His heart thundered wildly against his ribcage as Stiles's head lolled against the pale blue spackle, mouth agape and eyes rolling back into his head before disappearing underneath closed lids. Scott's hands flew over his friend's face, frantically wiping the moisture from his brow and gently clutching his chin.

"Stiles? Stiles, no..." He cried desperately. Derek gently placed a hand on the alpha's shoulder.

"Scott, we need to get him to Deaton's," he stated urgently. "He needs help that we can't give him."

Scott nodded, letting a breath out through his nostrils as his worry-filled gaze continued to sweep over his friend. He didn't hesitate to reply.

"Let's go."


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles's head rested in the crook of Scott's neck, rolling forward slightly with the occasional bump in the road. The werewolf could feel the short, warm puffs of his friend's breath tickling his collarbone as Derek quickly drove to the vet's clinic, running a few stop signs in the process. Stiles was like a heater slumped against Scott's body, skinny limbs askew and damp from sweat and his shower treatment. Scott wrapped his arms tighter around the teen and gently nuzzled his nose into his disheveled hair. _He smelled like Stiles._

Derek glanced in the rear view mirror. Scott was wrapped around Stiles, clutching the unconscious figure like he was afraid he would disappear if he let go. His mouth was pressed against his friend's damp hair as he stared out the window, sad eyes fixated on some faraway thoughts. Derek returned his gaze to the road, suddenly overcome with an onset of emotions he typically didn't like to get too comfortable with. The pair were a wonder to him. How incredibly connected they were, always looking out for one another with a level of compassion and genuine love he had never experienced; never even thought possible. Deep down, he was jealous. He, the intimidating and brooding alpha, only got shifty, nervous glances and scowls from others. _What he would give_ to receive the kind of brotherly affection from the pair in the backseat…

The sun was setting in the sky now, staining the cloud-free canvas a dusty grey-lavender, bleeding crimson hues above the horizon. Stiles whimpered slightly from the backseat, small drips of pain leaking through in his unconscious state. Scott stroked his hair, meeting Derek's eyes in the rear view mirror with a face littered with anxious wrinkles.

"Hurry," he whispered.

Within a few minutes, they arrived at Deaton's clinic, Scott gathering Stiles into his arms and kicking open his door before Derek could even kill the engine. The pair leaped outside and Derek spun around to help Scott, but was stopped with a burning look.

"I got him," said Scott determinedly, shifting Stiles up a little in his arms so that the teen's head rested on his friend's chest, bridal-style. Derek knew the lanky teen would be a bit heavy for the younger alpha, but kept his distance. Instead, he strode ahead and burst into the clinic, startling Deaton, who was situated at the front desk. The vet jerked his head up in surprise, confused eyes skimming over the panting alpha for injuries before widening upon spotting the limp form in Scott's arms.

"My God," he breathed, standing up and rushing over.

"Deaton," urged Derek. "Deaton, help him, please!"

"Set him down over here."

The vet rushed to the back room with the werewolves in tow and quickly cleared his exam table, shoving papers and various jargon to the ground in a tumbling cascade with a brash swipe of his arm. Scott gently laid Stiles on the table, who was immediately prodded and looked over by Deaton. The teen had grown alarmingly worse; his face was ashen, and his breathing had grown raspy and labored. The heat rolling off him was unbelievable.

"What happened?" Deaton demanded, hands flying over Stiles's body to check for injuries. He pressed two fingers against the teen's neck, eyes darting to his watch. Scott wasted no time running to the supply cabinets to grab water, towels, and a thermometer.

"We think he got sick and collapsed," explained Derek. "We put him in the shower to cool him down, but he threw up and passed out again when we found him."

"At school he didn't look well," added Scott, running back to the table with the gathered materials. "He was really tired."

Deaton hurriedly started unwrapping gauze and setting out small bottles of liquid. He took the supplies from Scott and immediately went to work, lifting up Stiles's eyelids and shining a light in his rolled-up pupils. The thermometer pressed against his forehead beeped and displayed 104.2. He pursed his lips together.

"Scott, get me towels and Acetaminophen, syringes and water," he ordered. "Derek, come here and press this to his forehead. Try to wake him up."

The werewolves sprung into action as the vet quickly set up an IV, rubbing Stiles's arm with alcohol before injecting the needle line. Stiles jerked at the pinch as Scott came over with the requested tools.

"Stiles?" Derek tried, gently patting the boy's cheek. "Stiles, I need you to wake up. Can you hear me?"

Stiles didn't even bat an eyelash. He lay on the exam table, chest rising unevenly and eyes closed; he completely oblivious to the frantic bustling of his friends around him.

"Deaton, what's wrong with him?" asked Scott anxiously, standing back as the doctor ripped off the plastic covering the needles and filled them with the antibiotic.

"He has a high fever, extremely dehydrated and concussed," the doctor replied, snapping a rubber tie around Stiles's limp arm. "The shock is affecting his respiratory system… You boys were lucky you found him when you did."

"mmmph..."

Stiles twitched below them, a small moan escaping through his chapped lips as he finally started responding to Derek's rousing efforts.

"That's it, Stiles. Open your eyes for me," encouraged Deaton, who was prodding the crook of the teen's arm with his fingers, searching for a vein. Stiles suddenly jerked on the exam table as Deaton slipped a needle into his arm, startling the three of them.

Stiles was hot. _God, he was burning._ Everything was dark and muddled, like he was underwater in a murky lake. He couldn't breathe; it was as if the air was warm and sticky. _His head was warm and sticky,_ he registered distantly. There was something on his forehead, and a slippery hand on his cheek. _Why was that there?_ He tried batting it away, wondering why his arm was so heavy. Then the pain shot through him, triggered by a sharp prick in the crook of his arm. His head, _oh his head_ was splitting open, his limbs were tingling and his entire body ached with fire. He tried to take in more air as his fear mounted. _What was going on?_ Noise filtered through his muddied awareness; someone was talking in a distorted, far-away voice. Stiles tried to move, to get away, but something held him down.

_"-Iles, _Stiles! It's okay!"

Scott and Derek gently held down their friend's weak attempts at flailing at them.

"Calm him down, don't let him have a panic attack," urged Deaton, administering the shot.

"I know what to do," breathed Scott. He shuffled closer to his friend and placed his palm firmly against Stiles's chest, over his heart. He leeched away some of the pain as he did so, black lines shooting up his arm as Stiles visibly relaxed, letting out a relieved whimper. Scott wrapped his other hand around Stiles's palm, interlacing his fingers with his best friend's.

"Stiles," he said gently. His voice was firm, but calm. "Stiles, focus on my voice. One… Two…"

Stiles weakly gasped for air, head rolling back and forth underneath Derek's firm hold on the towel.

"…Three… Four…"

Little by little, Stiles unclenched his muscles. His breathing became less erratic, slowing into shaky pants. He turned his head in the direction of Scott's voice, eyebrows tugging together slightly. Derek watched in awe as the alpha slowly managed to calm down his friend. By the time Scott reached ten, Stiles had flopped back against the table, limp and exhausted. Then his eyes fluttered open, revealing two confused, cinnamon irises under heavy lids, pupils blown wide.

"Scott?"

The werewolf broke into a smile at the sound of his friend's voice. It was faint and cracked, but still his voice.

"Hey buddy," he said.

Stiles blinked groggily, disoriented eyes wandering lazily around the room, pausing briefly on Deaton. He frowned, head flopping to the side as looked to Scott again.

"M' I hurt?" he slurred.

Scott's smile fell a little as he looked at his friend's tired, glassy eyes. He saw a touch of fear flicker through the unfocused gaze.

"Yeah… But we're gonna get you better," he said.

"Oh… Good…" Stiles breathed, eyes going hazy. They fluttered and started sliding shut.

"Hey, stay awake," growled Derek, lightly hitting his cheek.

Stiles blinked rapidly, mildly surprised at the new, scary-sounding voice above him. He wrenched his head up, gaze flickering over the scowling face staring down at him before flopping back against the table, blinking heavily.

"Der…?"

The werewolf scowled deeper, but Scott caught the tiniest twinkle of affection in his eyes.

"Yes," he grubbed, removing the towel. He picked up a bottle of antiseptic and started dressing the cut. "Now don't go to sleep."

"Stiles," Deaton cut in, adjusting the IV bag. "Stiles, what do you remember last?"

Stiles took in a deep breath and tried moving his head, eyes swimming dazedly about the room. He didn't seem to register the question.

"Stiles," said Scott, gently cupping his friend's face. "Stiles, I need you to focus. Focus on me… What was the last thing you remember?"

Stiles's half-lidded gaze sluggishly made it's way over to the concerned face of his friend before him. He took a shuddering breath, eyebrows knitting together a fraction as he closed his eyes.

"S'hot…" he panted. Suddenly the heat was becoming unbearable again. His tongue felt like wool.

"I know," said Scott, squeezing his friend's hand helplessly. "Just hang on, stay with me."

Stiles blinked, trying to clear the black and yellow blotches overwhelming his vision. The world spun, jerking with every dull throb pulsating throughout his body with every heartbeat. His senses clouded over as the fire coursing through his veins burned through him like acid.

"_-iles!_ Stiles!"

Scott and Derek called his name desperately as they watched their friend sink against the table, limbs going limp as he drew in long, labored breaths. Then Stiles's hand went lax in Scott's grip, unfocused eyes staring incoherently ahead before rolling into their sockets and fluttering shut.

"No, _no_ Stiles!" pleaded Scott, tugging at the fabric of his friend's shirt. His eyes darted over the unconscious form for the thousandth time that day, one thousand too many, silently begging him to open his eyes again and smile one of those big, goofy grins. To say something funny and make Derek roll his eyes, to squeeze his hand back and assure him that he was just sleeping. He just hated seeing Stiles… _His_ Stiles… So… _Vulnerable._

"Scott, wrap these around his neck" said Deaton, tossing the werewolf some damp washcloths. "Derek, I trust you know how to wrap his head?"

Derek glowered at him in response as he started unwrapping a roll of gauze. The vet worked with Scott to place the rags in Stiles's central points, Deaton occasionally straying to monitor the teen's pulse. Scott pressed a cool rag to Stiles's cheek, biting his lip.

"He's gonna be okay, Scott," said Deaton, glancing over. "He's past the worst."

Scott looked up expectantly.

"So… So what now?" He asked anxiously.

"Now," replied the vet, wiping his hands on a clean towel. "We let him rest. I'll keep an eye on him here, his fever should start dropping soon. I suggest you two go home. I would tell his father too, if you haven't notified him already."

"We haven't yet…" replied Scott quietly, looking at Derek. The other werewolf was just finishing tapering off Stiles's bandage. "I want to stay with him. I mean… If that's okay."

Derek looked up, exchanging a short glance with the vet before turning back to Scott. The younger alpha looked like a puppy, brown eyes huge and pleading.

"Alright," said Deaton, smiling a little. "I'll be in the other room. Keep an eye on his temperature and switch out the cloths when they get warm. Call me if he wakes up."

"I'll stay too," said Derek, shifting a little on his feet. Scott looked at him in surprise as Deaton quirked an eyebrow. Derek gave his best brooding scowl at the two of them, arms crossed as if to say, _"I'm still a massively intimidating alpha and you can't make me leave."_ The smile on the vet's lips broadened a touch before he turned his head, hiding his amusement.

"Okay," he said, heading out the door. "Make sure his dad knows," he added, throwing the boys one more appreciative look before exiting the room.

* * *

Hello readers, thank you for waiting so patiently for this chapter! More are on the way. I wanted to clear up a pressing question that may be bucking around inside your noggin:  
"_Why wasn't Stiles taken to the hospital? What does Deaton know?! He's just a vet/werewolf doctor!"  
_Well… Yeah. I know. But in this story, his medical expertise is just fine for our adorable human friend because personally, I find hospital settings so impersonal. Most stories just go from Stiles getting hurt, blacking out and then POOF he wakes up in a hospital with tubes and awkward nurses standing over him, usually halting the pace of the story dramatically and rather… dully. Plus, where was all the whumpy goodness? The concerned fretting of our onlooking favorite werewolves?! Hmmm? I specialize in drawing that out as long as possible ;) Love, The Typewriter Girl.


	4. Chapter 4

Derek and Scott stood somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the room as they listened to the vet's footsteps echo down the hall and disappear to the front of the clinic. Derek stared at the floor, unwilling to meet Scott's eyes. _What had gotten into him?_ He had just offered —no, _insisted_— that he stay and watch over… _Stiles._ Idiot. Alphas couldn't afford to be soft, and as Derek Hale, he wasn't soft. He _wasn't_, dammit... But now he had given that impression not only to his supernatural healer, but to the kid who looked up to him like a brother… All for some hyperactive idiot lying unconscious on the table. Derek shifted his gaze to Stiles, who lay pale and out cold, washcloths tucked around him like bedding cocooning a newborn pup. The werewolf felt an overwhelming urge to step forward and touch him, stroke him, hold his hand and deliver some sort of tangible comfort, for Stiles and himself…

But Derek pushed the instinct away harshly, spinning on his heels and marching towards a chair in the far corner of the room, as if he was running away fearfully from the thought. _He wasn't soft._ The alpha ran the short sentence over and over in his mind as he plopped down heavily in the grey seat, muscular arms folded and eyebrows pulled crossly over his emerald squint. He peeked at Scott from the corner of his eye to make sure that he had seen his gruff stature, but the werewolf was hardly paying any attention.

The younger alpha's eyes hadn't left the face of his best friend since the vet stepped foot outside the cold treatment room, hands slightly curled by his sides as if they wanted to make fists, but lacked the energy. He took a step forward and slowly raised his arm, reaching out a timid hand towards his friend. With all the gentleness of a a doe-eyed fawn, Scott gingerly wrapped his fingers around Stiles's as his eyes drank in the placid face before him. The alpha frowned slightly, frustration and concern tugging his features into a slightly-wrinkled canvas of emotions. He had seen Stiles sleeping plenty of times before; napping in class, tucked under covers in the mornings after sleepovers, crumpled on his desk at home after too many hours of trying to piece together the latest supernatural murder mystery of Beacon Hills… He was usually snoring or drooling with a dopey expression, providing classic Stiles comic relief, even in sleep.

But now Stiles looked different. Scott sighed softly as his worried gaze swept over his friend's paler-than-usual complexion, the bandage around his head, the way his cupid-bow lips parted slightly as if he was startled before he slipped away. He had only seen Stiles truly unconscious once before, last year during a panic attack. They had been at Scott's house studying for a test. Scott was situated in a chair at the computer and Stiles had been standing beside him, going over notes until he suddenly paused, hands trembling. Scott remembered hearing his heartbeat suddenly flutter and speed up, followed by a choked-out _"Scott!"_ Before Stiles stumbled backwards, reaching out for something to steady himself.

_"Stiles?" Scott whipped around and immediately jumped out of his desk chair as Stiles tripped backwards and landed hard on his ass at the foot of Scott's bed, breathing heavily._

_"Scott," he panted, gripping the werewolf's shirt sleeve. "I can't, I c-can't do this, I-"_

_"Stiles, Stiles calm down," he said gently, trying to keep his voice steady. "Focus on me, you're fine."_

_"M-my dad is g-gonna kill me," he wheezed, straining his neck backwards, almost as if he were trying to disappear into the mattress. "I c-can't f-f-focus, I c-an't breathe-" _

_Scott's eyes widened as his friend was cut off by a horrible gasping ripping through his throat. He firmly gripped Stiles by the shoulders and tried to connect his gaze with the cinnamon eyes darting wildly around the room. _

_"Stiles! Stiles! Look at me, listen to me. Can you hear me? You're okay, everything is okay, just look at me!" he pleaded. But his friend's gasps were getting shorter and more shallow, making his senses fuzzy and dull as his oxygen quickly depleted. "Stiles! Stay with me! One… Two… Three..." But Stiles was already drowning, too far beyond reality to register Scott's pleas over the roaring in his ears. Scott was terrified as Stiles slowly lost his strength and went limp in his arms, eyes rolling into the back of his head before his head flopped forward and his breathing evened out. _

After that, Scott had lowered him to the ground on his back, where he caught his first glimpse at how vulnerable his friend could look. He had sat there on the carpet, knees folded under him and hands trembling, shocked at what had just happened… And shocked at how he could face dozens of flesh wounds, terrifying alphas and supernatural attacks with ease, but be reduced to a quivering pup at the sight of his passed-out friend. Within a minute Stiles had come around, blinking confusedly up at Scott before clumsily flinging his arm over his eyes with a quiet curse, muttering an embarrassed _"ohmygod I'm so sorry"_ before the werewolf helped him sit up.

_"It's alright,"_ Scott had said, giving his friend a small smile. But really it wasn't alright, because Scott was terrified. Lying eyes-closed and limbs sprawled on the carpet, Stiles had looked… _dead._ And the thought of losing his best friend sent a crushing wave of agony through Scott's chest more painful than a tsunami of daggers; he just couldn't bear the thought. The panic attack had been a reminder of how human Stiles really was, and how vulnerable that made him in the dangerous race he ran with the pack. That day, as Scott hid his shaking hands behind his back, he vowed to do whatever it took to protect Stiles. He _never_ wanted to see him hurt or knocked senseless again.

But now here he was, looking down on his unconscious friend for the umpteenth time that day. He wondered how many more times he would be in this position; how many more times his crazy, fucked-up werewolf life would drag_ Stiles_ into this position. Scott's chest churned with guilt. _He should have been more careful._

Across the room, Derek observed Scott from the corner of his eye. _The kid was always so melodramatic._ He watched as Scott gingerly adjusted the rag around Stiles's neck, picking up the corner of the damp terrycloth with his fingertips and tugging it up a millimeter, seemingly lost in thought. Derek's scowl softened slightly. Scott looked just like… _him._ When Cora was stretched out, sick and dying on the floor of their home.

"It's not your fault."

Scott blinked and whipped his head up towards Derek, who was staring at him from the corner of the room.

"It's not your fault he's sick, Scott."

Scott turned his gaze back to Stiles, eyebrows knitting together a fraction.

"It's my fault he's _this_ sick," he said quietly.

"No, it's not," countered Derek. "If you hadn't called me, he could be a lot worse right now."

Scott let go of Stiles's hand and turned his body so that he faced the other alpha, taking a step forward with pained eyes locked on his mentor.

"That's just it!" He gritted out, eyes smarting with the threat of frustrated tears. "I should have done something _myself!_ I could see right through him during lunch, I _always_ see through him when he's hiding how he really feels! So why did I let him leave? Why didn't I take him home and make sure he was okay? How am I supposed to be a good alpha when I can't even protect my _best friend!"_

_"Stop it!"_ Derek growled, cutting in. His eyes flashed crimson as he stood up, facing Scott with an intense glare. Startled, Scott unconsciously took a step back, eyes flickering towards the clenched fists the alpha held tensely at his sides. He was briefly concerned Derek might pop claws and advance on him, but the werewolf remained rooted to the spot, dangerously still. Then Derek let out a controlled exhale, one he didn't seem to realize he had been holding. Venom drained out with it.

"You're a great alpha… One I could only hope to be."

Scott stared at the other werewolf in quiet disbelief. Derek held his gaze with steady emerald eyes that were just as cold and steely as they were when he jumped out of his chair mere moments before… But now there was something else there… _Pride._ Pride for Scott. And… _Jealousy? Or was it shame?_

"How do you think I felt when Cora was dying, Scott?" Asked Derek quietly, tipping his head slightly at an angle. "I _hated_ myself for letting her get hurt. It was my responsibility as the pack leader to look out for everyone, but that's just it, Scott; you _can't_ protect everybody. Sometimes things are out of your control, like how there was no way I could have known that the twins were going to attack her… And I've accepted that. You have to learn to accept it too, or else you're a detriment to you and your pack."

Scott gazed at the other alpha with wide eyes, pried open by the unbelievable amount of openness and emotion the werewolf had just shared with him. Derek looked away, suddenly sheepish about his heartfelt pep-talk and twisted his features into the usual scowl. _You're turning into Scott,_ he thought begrudgingly. _But… Maybe that's not such a bad thing…_

"You care about him."

Derek froze as Scott's words echoed off the cold walls and steel cabinets, nearly shattering his ribcage with the decibel. He realized he had unconsciously shifted his gaze to Stiles. Mentally cursing himself for pausing, he quickly whipped his head up and glared at the younger alpha with all the scorn his eyebrow muscles could muster. He opened his mouth to deny it, to growl a warning, to say _something_… But to his horror, Derek found that not a single sound escaped his parted lips. He stood there, mouth slightly open and stock-still, dying a million deaths on the inside. He waited for the waterfall of ridicule to crash upon him, to thrust it's fingers inside him and rip out his secret and cackle a maniacal, all-knowing laugh to the skies…

But to his surprise, Scott did not laugh. He did not tease or throw any crude retort. Instead, he smiled softly, looking at Derek with all the gentle understanding in the world.

"I…" Derek started, shifting his gaze back to the boy on the exam table. His chest tightened, making the breath hitch in his throat before he let out a small sigh. "I…Yes. I do care about him," He said softly.

He could practically feel the warmth from Scott's smile penetrating his ribcage.

"He cares about you, too."

Derek turned his head and looked at him, a spark of surprise dancing merrily in his eyes.

"You know," Scott smirked. "When he's not scared out of his wits when you're threatening to tear his throat out."

Derek cracked a smile, joining his younger brother in a short chuckle. He turned to him, eyes briefly skimming the werewolf up and down inquisitively.

"How did you know… To calm him down with the numbers thing?"

Scott looked down, pressing his lips together with a memory.

"The first time I was with him during a panic attack, he started counting his fingers… He said that accounting for all ten helped ground him. Gave him something to latch onto… Since then, I've always had him count my fingers whenever he has one. It almost always works…"

Scott trailed off, followed by a few moments of silence.

"You're a good friend."

Scott glanced at Derek in mild shock for the second time in five minutes… Two Derek Hale _compliments_ in five minutes? Scott briefly wondered if maybe Derek was dying. Or had been snorting wolfsbane.

"It's what any friend would do."

* * *

Shortly after their sweet-but-slightly-awkward heart-to-heart, Scott stepped outside to call the Sheriff. It was agreed that he should be the bearer of bad news, since Stiles's dad had known Scott for years and kinda hated Derek (or was at least a little shifty-eyed and suspicious around him). As the line rang, Scott braced himself.

"Sheriff Stilinski speaking."

"Hi, Mr. Stilinski, it's Scott."

"Oh… Ah, hi Scott." There was a hint of confusion in his voice. "Er, shouldn't you and Stiles be at practice right now?"

Scott's chest pulled slightly at the mention of lacrosse.

"Well… Actually, it's about Stiles," he said. There was a pause at the other end of the line, followed by a faint sigh. Scott pictured the man rubbing his forehead with his fingertips, trying to iron out the wrinkles his son had sewn over the years with his unfiltered chattering and shenanigans. When he spoke next, his voice was gruff and exasperated, drenched in the worn-down fatigue only raising a son for seventeen years could induce.

"What did he do now, Scott?"

Scott licked his lips, nervously picking at the loose threads of his sleeve with his fingers.

"Actually, Mr. Stilinski… Stiles is at the Animal Clinic right now. He was sick today... Er, Derek and I found him at home in the bathroom. He has a concussion and a fever, but he's okay now."

Scott barely had enough time to deliver the gist of the news before the Sheriff cut in, voice tripping the top register of bewilderment and concern.

"_What?_ Scott, w— How… Can I talk to him?"

Scott's heart ached at the distress in the man's voice; the crack in his whispered question.

"He's actually unconscious right now…" Scott paused as he heard his friend's dad suck in a small breath. "But Deaton says he is going to be just fine." He finished quickly. There was another pause as the Sheriff blew out a shaky breath.

"Alright, I—" There was a frustrated break in his sentence. "I'm coming over now."

Scott stiffened. "But... But aren't you working on the coyote case? Mr. Stilinksi, my dad..." He struggled to construe the next words, sighing. "...My dad is trying to get you fired… Are you sure leaving the station is a good idea?"

"Nothing is more important than my son, Scott."

"I know, Mr. Stilinksi…" The alpha's voice softened. "...But Stiles is going to be fine. He _won't_ be fine if he finds out you lost your position to come see him."

Scott held the phone to his ear, hand tucked in the crook of his elbow as he leant against the white speckled wall of the hallway. He tuned into the silence that passed between them, listening to the faint white noise on the other end of the line as his friend's dad held his breath, running the words through his mind. Several long moments passed until the Sheriff let out a heavy sigh, making a decision.

"…Will you call me when he wakes up?"

Scott smiled a little. He wished he could have a dad like Stiles did.

"Of course," he replied. "Don't worry… He's in good hands."

"I know, Scott… Thank you."

Scott froze, his lips slowly tugging up a few more milimeters. He knew the Sheriff's utterance of appreciation extended far beyond the actions he had taken that afternoon.

"It's what any friend would do."

* * *

Happy Wednesday, readers! Just five more nights until "Weaponized"! Ohmygoodness… I have never been more excited for a Teen Wolf episode! Major fangirling on my part over the 20-second promo, which seems to promise some exciting hurt!Stiles and Scott drama! I'm really bummed there's only 12 episodes this season… Thank goodness for Fanfiction during the five-month gap, eh? ;) As always, thank you so much for the reviews! The next chapter is on the way. Love, The Typewriter Girl. :)


	5. Chapter 5

It was 7:20pm when Stiles first awoke coherently, nearly three hours after Scott and Derek came bursting through the doors of the clinic. Deaton had left twenty minutes prior at 7:00pm, after double-checking Stiles's vitals and informing the pair that he was out of the woods. His fever had dropped to an even 100, alleviating the pressure in his chest, and his heart rate had long since dropped within normal range. The werewolves had assured the vet that they would clean up and watch over Stiles while the last of the IV fluid finished draining, so he could close up and go home for the night.

"Kid sure likes his sleep," Derek grumbled. He wrung out the washcloths and folded them neatly in a pile by the sink as Scott let out a small laugh.

"Yeah, maybe that's why he's such a spazz when he's awake," he replied, earning a smirk from the other alpha.

"That's not very nice…"

The cracked voice shot through the werewolves like a taser. Scott and Derek immediately whipped their heads around to the figure on the exam table, who was blinking up at them with tired eyes.

_"Stiles!"_

Scott's elated cry bounced off the walls as he and Derek rushed to his side. The teen weakly shifted on the table, eyes squinting as he gingerly reached up and touched his head bandage.

"Mmh… What the hell happened?"

"You don't remember?" Asked Scott, eyebrows twitching a bit in concern. Stiles clumsily flung an arm on his chest and ran his hand confusedly over the damp spots on his shirt above his collarbone where the rags had been. His face crinkled with confusion.

"I… I came home feeling like crap… And I— I think I might have thrown up…" His eyes skipped dazedly between the ceiling, the werewolves, and the IV in his arm. "...But clearly that's not the whole story."

"You gave yourself a concussion too," grumbled Derek. Scott noted how the alpha's gaze danced across Stiles's face; his eyebrows were pulled over his eyes in the usual gruff expression, but his irises lit up with relief as they drank in the teen's animated features. "We found you on the floor of your bathroom. You must have passed out and hit your head on the corner of the sink."

_"Derek_ found you," Scott corrected. "I came later."

Stiles averted his gaze, looking a bit embarrassed before suddenly jerking his head up.

_"My dad!"_ He choked urgently, clumsily pushing himself up. "My dad, Scott did you-"

"Shh, Stiles it's okay, he knows," said Scott. "He was going to come see you when he got off duty." He pressed a hand against Stiles's back to help him sit up. Immediately his friend deflated, letting out a shaky sigh as his limbs stilled. He feebly folded his legs up, resting his arms on his knees. He stared blankly at his hands in silence for a few moments before looking up at the werewolves with troubled eyes. He seemed like he was about to say something before he paused, noticing what Scott was wearing.

"Scott…" Stiles started, eyes flickering curiously over his friend. "You're in your lacrosse jersey…"

"Yeah… I was at practice."

Stiles stared at his friend, eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar. The faintest scent of foreboding suddenly wafted off him, nipping the air.

"…How did you manage to get out of practice?" He asked softly. His eyes silently pleaded with the werewolf, who averted his gaze, biting his lip.

"Well, I… Left…" Scott's voice dropped lower as he uttered his next line. "…And I, uh... kinda got kicked off the team."

Stiles stared at his friend in shock. The silence in the room chilled the air as Scott forced himself to glance up at his friend. The expression he met squeezed the space beneath his sternum like an icy boa constrictor. Stiles's eyes were massive cinnamon orbs, framed by tense lines splayed across his milky complexion. His pink bottom lip quivered slightly, as if he wanted to speak but couldn't muster the words. His gaze was glued on Scott, providing the werewolf with a window to the sea of emotions bucking inside his friend; _shock, sadness… A storm of guilt._

Stiles's cheeks flushed slightly as he averted his gaze, adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed dryly. His nose twitched.

"I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?" Asked Scott softly. Stiles kept his gaze fixated on the far corner of the room, face tense as if it were made of glass one twitch away from shattering.

"I…" He pursed his lips slightly in frustration. "I'm always a burden… I-I didn't mean— I just… You always go out of your way to look out for me, Scott. I distract you from bigger problems. I mean," Stiles choked out a dry laugh. "You're a frickin' _werewolf._ And I'm just… _Human."_

Scott's heart broke at the way Stiles spat out the last word, voice twisted in a marriage of disappointment and shame. He gently reached out and squeezed Stiles's hand.

"Yes, but you're _my_ human."

Stiles glanced up, glassy eyes meeting the warm, chocolate-colored eyes of his friend.

"Being human isn't something to be ashamed of, Stiles," Scott continued. "You're part of what holds the pack together… The one who always's figures things out. You're my best friend... Without you, I'd be lost."

Stiles gazed at Scott in awe, eyes crinkling at the edges as a tiny, embarrassed smile tugged at his lips.

"Same here, buddy."

_"Ugh,_ can we cut the _sap_ and go home already?"

Derek's exasperated groan sliced through the tender atmosphere, causing the boys to whip their heads in his direction; they had almost forgotten that he was there. As they looked at him standing there with his hip popped, arms folded haughtily and lip pursed in his signature scowl, Scott and Stiles couldn't help but let a few giggles burst past their lips. Derek twitched, betraying a brief expression of bewilderment before contracting back into a deeper pout.

"What?" He demanded, eyes flashing defensively. But Scott and Stiles simply let the remark go unanswered as their laughter subsided into tired grins.

"I'm with ya, sourwolf," said Stiles, twisting his arm to examine the IV needle taped to his skin. "As soon as one of you gets this out of me… G_ently_… Let's go home."

* * *

Stiles dozed in the car on the way to his house, snoring softly on Scott's shoulder in the backseat. Scott smiled as his ran his hand through his friend's hair affectionately. _This was the sleeping Stiles he knew._ Derek kept glancing back at them in the rear view mirror and rolling his eyes, but Scott could see the small smile on the werewolf's lips in the window's reflection.

When they pulled up in front of the Stilinski's driveway, Scott gently nudged his friend.

"Stiles. Stiles, wake up."

"Mmmfff… No."

This time Scott rolled his eyes. He was about to nudge him again, but was cut off by Derek, who twisted around from the front seat and performed a startlingly loud growl a foot from Stiles's face. Stiles jerked, eyes flying open as he scrambled for purchase on Scott.

_"Holy_ fffriggin'— What the _hell, _man!" He squawked, wincing at Derek as his hand flew to his head. "You make the Marimba alarm sound like a frickin' chorus of angels..."

Derek flashed a grin, eyes dancing. "Out," he said. "You're making my car smell like awkward spazz."

"Yeah, well maybe it will help mask the current stench of asshole sourwolf," Stiles grumbled with a pout as Scott helped him shuffle outside. The younger alpha was about to shut the car door when Stiles suddenly ducked his head back inside, his face smoothing into a softer expression.

"Thanks, Derek… For, you know… Saving my ass."

For once, Derek actually looked at Stiles without a scowl plastered on his face. His green eyes sparkled with something… _Affection?_

"It was nothing, Stiles. I'm glad you're okay."

Stiles blinked, feeling like he was just shot in the chest with a kitten-cannon… _Did Derek Hale just say something nice to him? _

"Now go. I have stuff to do," growled Derek, face melting back into it's comfortable state of looking like he smelled something bad.

Stiles smiled, pulling his head back outside. Without another word, Scott wrapped an arm around his friend and shut the car door, giving Derek an appreciative nod before turning away and walking Stiles up the driveway.

Derek drove off, feeling oddly warm inside. As his car disappeared down the road, Stiles swung his head up towards Scott, his nose bobbing three inches from his friend's face.

"Scott," he quipped.

"Yes, Stiles?"

"Derek was just _nice_ to me," he said, a sleepy grin plastered on his face.

"Mmm… Is that so?"

"Yep," said Stiles, his head dipping for a moment before pulling it back up. He pressed into Scott as he clumsily teetered towards the front door. "Yep, yep, yeppers… Derek _Hale_ was nice to _meeee_, Scotty... Yeppers peppers."

"Yeah… You definitely have a concussion."

The pair were five feet from the house when the front door suddenly opened, casting a silhouette of a very relieved Sheriff Stilinski onto the walkway before them.

"Stiles," he breathed, stepping forward with a love-filled gaze Scott had only ever seen in his own mother's eyes. Scott unhooked his arm from Stiles's waist as the Sheriff embraced his son, wrapping his arms around him in a hug that would put bears to shame.

"Heyyy dad…"

Stiles leaned into the embrace, inhaling deeply as he pressed his face into his father's jacket. The Sheriff put his hands on the teen's shoulders and pulled back, drinking in his son's face. His eyes flickered sympathetically from Stiles's bloodstained bandage and shirt to his pale pallor and droopy eyelids.

"Oh, Stiles… You scared the crap out of me, bud," he said, letting out a breath between a relived smile.

"Mmm… Sorry pops," said Stiles, swaying a bit on his feet. "Didn't mean t'a make you crap…"

"Doc says to have him rest," said Scott, breaking into a grin. He struggled not to laugh at his friend's comment. "Other than that, he ordered aspirin to keep the fever down and gatorade so he stays hydrated."

The Sheriff wrapped an arm around Stiles's shoulders, steadying him. He turned to Scott, eyes glowing with appreciation.

"Scott… Thank you. Stiles is lucky to have you."

Scott smiled, meeting the Sheriff's twinkling gaze with one of equal gratitude.

"I'm the lucky one, Mr. Stilinski."

* * *

_-One week later-_

"No, all I'm saying is that you're barking up the wrong tree!"

"Really Stiles, dog jokes?"

Stiles turned around, throwing Scott a smirk before pausing, a more serious expression taking over his face.

"You really didn't have to walk me to practice," he said gently, eyes sweeping concernedly over his friend. "I know it's been hard not being on the field…"

"It's okay, really," said Scott, pulling his features into a smile. He could tell Stiles could see right through the lie. "I _want_ to walk you… I've missed you, buddy. I've had to listen to Lydia and Alison talk about _hair_ and _shoes_ for the past week. Do you know what that's like?"

Stiles smiled sadly back at his friend. He looked down, pausing to kick a rock across the track. It skittered across to the bleachers, ricocheting off the cold metal with a small clang before spinning to a stop.

"I'm gonna quit, you know."

Scott's mouth fell open.

_"Lacrosse?"_

"No, Scott. Knitting. _Yes,_ lacrosse."

Scott gaped at his friend, trying to make his mouth work.

"B-but," he stuttered. _"Why?_ You love lacrosse!"

"Not anymore. Not without you."

The werewolf gazed at the skinny teen before him, unable to find the words to convey the tugging in his chest. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could utter a single syllable he was interrupted by a sharp shout behind them.

"McCall!"

The boys spun around, blinking in surprise when they came face-to-face with Coach Finstock. The man came over to them, eyes shifting nervously back and forth as if he were coming up to them to buy drugs.

"Er, hi coach," Scott said nervously, eyes analyzing his coach in confusion.

"Uh, McCall. About the other day…" He said, clearing his throat. He whipped his head back and forth, eyes darting around the field as if a demon clown were about to jump him. "I, uh… May have been a bit hasty in my decision to remove you from the team… I trust you still have your gear?"

The pair stared at him, mouths hanging open like a couple of stunned fish, not quite believing his words. Scott was the first to recover.

"Uh, yeah coach," he said, head cocked cautiously. "It's at home."

The coach nodded jerkily, picking at his thumbs. He licked his lips.

"…Erm, good. I'll see you back on the field tomorrow then."

"Uh… Gee, thanks coach."

The man gave another uncoordinated nod and grunted a short "kay then" before striding past the pair towards the equipment shed, head jerking back and forth scanning the field the entire time.

"Wonder what got into him," Stiles said slowly, lip twisting into a slightly-freaked-out curl as his eyes followed the coach across the grass. It quickly morphed into an ecstatic grin as he turned to Scott, clapping him enthusiastically on the back. _"Buuuuuut_ look who's back on the _team!_" He squealed, eyes sparkling with a thousand watts of energy.

"Uh, yeah… I guess I am!"

Scott broke into a grin, eyebrows still pulled together in bewilderment as he scanned the clearing, wondering what coach was so spooked about. Then his eyes spotted a figure in the shadows behind the stands, shaped suspiciously like a certain brooding werewolf in a leather jacket. Scott's smile doubled in size as he locked eyes with him, hardly registering Stiles's ecstatic, rapid-fire chattering as he was tugged along to the locker rooms.

He could have sworn he saw Derek smile back at him before the alpha melted into the shadows, turning around and running into the forrest with a contented howl.

* * *

And that concludes this _extra-bromancy story! _Hi guys.  
Wow, I can't get over all your reviews and how NICE you all are! Thank you so much. You have no idea how excited it makes me that you guys like hurt!Stiles and bromance too! Haha. I love this site because it's like a community of secret whump-enthusiasts who all love the show and the characters... In real life I'm a closet Teen Wolf fan (teehee), so it's so great to fangirl with people who feel the same! For anyone who wishes, check out the "Communities" tab on my profile to find the **"Stiles Whump Collection"**, which is where I put all the best hurt!Stiles stories ;) Just four more nights until the much-anticipated episode 7! Meanwhile, if you like you can check out my other fics for more **bromancy-goodness** between our beloved Teen Wolf characters! Happy reading :) Love, The Typewriter Girl.


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